


"Dinner and a Show"

by Vanishershade



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Fear of Change, Gypsy Fiddle Playing, Hidden Talent, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanishershade/pseuds/Vanishershade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Gene reveals a hidden talent to Sam...</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Dinner and a Show"

“Dinner and a Show”

 

By Vanishershade 

 

Wherein Gene reveals a hidden talent to Sam.

 

Dinner out once a week had become a ritual of sorts for the two of them. After dinner hour began, Sam and Gene would make their way, usually to some established foreign quarter of town, and dine. They were not apparently a couple, just co-workers sharing a meal and quiet conversation. If they fucked each other blind in a shabby dive or in the back of the Cortina afterward, it was no one else’s business but their own.  
Tonight the faire was reliable Asian, the place a favorite haunt of Sam’s. He observed Gene as he ate, surreptitiously enjoying watching Gene as he ploughed through his entrée. There was a certain pleasure in watching a big man work through a meal…  
Gene caught Sam at his quiet observation. “Why you spyin’ on me, Tyler?” he asked around a mouthful. “Like what you see?”  
Sam managed a small smile. “Those are two very different questions,” Sam confessed. “I am spying, so that I can figure out how I am going to make you scream my name later. And I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like what I see.”  
Gene smirked. “Maybe you ain’t got much sense, but you ‘ave taste, I’ll grant yeh,” he said dryly.  
There were still obstacles between them pursuing a life together. Beyond the very obvious ones of the cultural stresses at work against them, there was Gene’s marriage—Agnes Hunt was a force of nature, not willing to give up her husband not because she loved him, but just the opposite—she was determined never to release him, because it would leave him free to pursue a life where he could be happy. And there would be no happiness for Gene Hunt on Agnes’ watch. Stealing a liaison once a week was not what Sam had in mind, but it was all that was available to them at present. Gene would not let him confront Agnes, and would not confront her himself. He claimed he wanted to “let her down easy,” a euphemism for stalling off the inevitable change that Sam knew Gene feared.  
There was also his longtime relationship with Ray. Sam understood that Gene and Ray had known each other for over thirty years, and that theirs was not exactly a romantic association—the two were master and servant, or more accurately Dog and Trainer, with Ray being the one to wear the leash. But even that knowledge did little to assuage the feelings of jealousy raised in Sam whenever he saw the obvious signs of camaraderie between the two old friends. Just seeing them in earnest conversation at the Railway Arms could send Sam into a sulky funk for hours. Because Gene and Ray had an old, established pattern of recreational shagging between them “to blow off steam,” Sam found it quite easy to resent Ray at times.  
Used to pretending in public, Ray had no difficulty keeping up the illusion of hating Sam at work, while being utterly submissive to him at the club where the three of them got together on occasion. Sam found that he disliked Ray less after spending a night whipping him until he drew blood or Ray wept, whichever came first. And Gene actually enjoyed watching Sam be cruel to Ray. It amused him, which Sam found vaguely unnerving in a very stimulating way.  
Gene was not a man fond of belaboring the point. But they would have to discuss feelings and futures and all the things Sam knew Gene hated giving voice to eventually, and such a discussion was most likely to take place at one of their clandestine meals out. Besides, Sam was coming to cherish the dinners more and more as time passed. Sometimes, rarely, the conversation would drift over into arenas they did not talk about at work. And Sam was beginning to find it marginally easier to get Gene to open up about hidden aspects of his character…  
They walked together to the car, Gene chewing contentedly on a toothpick, his hands in his coat pockets. Sam walked through the growing fog, watching as the vapor was displaced as they moved through it.  
“I want something, from you,” Sam began.  
“You get everythin’ from me; me devotion, me pity. What else d’yer want?”  
Sam tilted his head back to look into Gene’s eyes. “I want something you have never shared with Mrs. Hunt. Something of you I can own, selfishly.”  
Gene paused. He took the toothpick from the corner of his mouth. “Tall order,” he said contemplatively. “Pretty confident you ‘ave me, aren’t yeh?”  
“Completely,” Sam assured Gene.  
Gene chuckled. “Smug little bastard,” he said under his breath. “All right. But you’ll ‘ave to wait until next week to ‘ave it.”  
Sam nodded. “I can wait,” he assured Gene. And the statement he had made with such ease would come back to haunt Sam before seven days had gone by…

The anticipation was killing Sam.  
It was not as if what was coming was something they could discuss at work. They never discussed anything at CID except police business and football. There was no way to; too many souls about.  
Sam found himself disturbed by the mere presence of Chris and Ray, the two of them distracting as hell together. Ray did an effective job of hiding the strange relationship he presently enjoyed with Sam and Gene, a fact Sam never ceased to be amazed by. That someone he considered so unsophisticated could disguise his own willingly submissive nature was a marvel Sam often pondered, particularly on the days when the three of them got together. Ray did not ever carry over unhappiness from work, but stayed appropriately quiescent and obeyed Sam as well as Gene when they were in a session. Which was strange, because he was as surly as ever before in Sam’s dealings with him at CID. The man was either smarter than he pretended to be, or a devil of an actor.  
That week’s business got Sam’s full attention, as usual. But a very small part of his mind was always occupied by the thought of what it could be, that Gene would give him on the night of their regular dinner. Gene was not telling, although some days Sam imagined that he could see Gene and Ray sharing the occasional look or whisper between them. So, was Ray to be involved in the night’s festivities? Sam could only wonder.  
The regular Friday night gathering at the Railway Arms was raucous, as usual. If he even remembered what they had discussed the previous week, Gene gave no sign. And the thought left Sam more than a little perturbed. His request, that Gene give him something that he had never given to Mrs. Hunt, had been important to Sam. But perhaps it was not so easy for a literal man like Gene to even interpret what such a request might mean.  
Sam watched Gene that night. He was his usual boisterous self, playing at darts or cards, sharing the occasional drink with various others. Sam and he shared a small table in the back, where they kept the discussion to their usual round of argument. Ray Carling disappeared from the pub around twelve-thirty, and Sam did not find himself sparing the man a second thought.  
After closing, Sam walked with Gene to the car. He did not want to have to remind Gene of the previous week’s promise, but his feelings were somewhat hurt by the idea that Gene had forgotten entirely.  
Gene slid noisily behind the wheel of the Cortina. He revved the engine; sling back gloved hands clutching the wheel. Gene looked at Sam, his green eyes at half-mast.  
“Alright, Dorothy. What’s the tickler up yours, eh?”  
Sam shook his head. “Nothing,” he said gloomily.  
Gene lit a cigarette. “Shite, Tyler. If you were as good a liar as you are a lover, I’d be the richest procurer in Manchester.”  
Sam bristled at the comment. Gene raised his hands to ward off the poisonous look Sam was giving him. “All right, sorry, “ he said hastily. Then, pulling out into the lane, Gene said, nonchalantly, “I did what you asked, by the way. Brung you sommat I never shared with the wife. I didn’t forget.”  
Sam felt his heart leap. He resisted the urge to hug Gene while he was driving, but rewarded him with a wide, beautiful smile.  
“You galloot,” Sam said warmly, hanging on as Gene drove them to a favorite eatery. The two of them dined that night, and the atmosphere between them was lighter and more jovial than it had been all week. Gene joked with Sam in a way that was playful and sultry all at once, and Sam marveled at how a man could send so many mixed messages at once.  
Dinner was a rousing success, and still Gene gave no clue to Sam what it may have been that he planned to share with him. Sam hung on during the ride back to his tiny flat, because of course Gene drove like a madman the whole way; he always did, police business or not.  
Ray’s shabby old car was parked out front, and Sam felt the familiar stab of jealousy despite Gene’s constant assurances that he and Ray were “more like brothers.” It was not like Sam never got Gene to himself; most of their meetings were blessedly one-on-one. But Ray had been Gene’s willing slave for thirty years, and it was hard not to be intimidated by his presence.  
The flat smelled of clean laundry and solitary male, a distinctive and contrary aroma only Sam’s flat could have had. Gene walked in behind Sam, his hand on his shoulder, his leathern thumb stroking the skin at the nape of Sam’s neck. Ray stood by the entrance to the kitchen, looking for all the world like a housebreaker. He held something wrapped in a grey blanket in his arms.  
“Does everyone at CID ‘ave a key to my flat?” Sam put to Gene.  
“Din’t need a key,” Ray supplied, sounding pleased with himself. “Jus’ frown at that door, she opens up like a two quid prossie.”  
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. Gene strode over to Ray, taking the blanket wrapped object and turning to look at Sam. “Pour us a couple drinks, lad. And I’ll show you sommat my wife ‘as never clapped her eyes on.”  
Sam fetched clean glasses from the kitchen. He poured for himself, Gene and then Ray, sitting in the floral print chair by the bed when he was done. “So, Gene, you didn’t bring me something like a pair of your shoes or something, did you?”  
Gene made a face. “It’s so nice to know that you think I am a complete Philistine,” he said. “I understood what you meant last week, Tyler—you wanted a thing I ‘ad never shared with Agnes. Well, this is that.”  
Gene carefully unwrapped the blanket and let it fall to the floor. Sam gaped at the object revealed: a battered violin case.  
Sam stared at the beaten up case, never thinking it could contain an actual violin. But it did, and a nice instrument at that, from what he could judge. Sam saw something he had never seen in Gene’s eyes as he lifted the instrument from its velvet-lined house.  
“Learned to play from our uncle, when I were a kid,” he confided. Sam watched as Gene plucked the strings to tune it. “‘E were Romany, I think.”  
Sam put his hand over his heart. “Romany? You mean a Romany Gypsy? Are you saying you are part Gypsy, Gene?”  
“You keep that to yerself, Tyler. That’s in strict confidence, that is.” Gene adjusted the tuning keys, and then dragged the bow over the strings. Sam felt the peal of sound slice through his consciousness like a blade. Gene played a rapid little jig to warm up, and he played with power and authority and a certain, challenging grace. Sam stared at Gene’s face, watched his lashes lying thickly on his cheek as his eyes closed, and he began to let the long suppressed music well fourth from him. This was not violin playing—no such music had ever graced a parlour or music room. This was the fiddle, an instrument of men aboard ship.  
Sam could not believe what he was hearing. Here was Gene Hunt, the Sheriff, the King of the Jungle, the toughest copper in Manchester, a man Sam had witnessed stare down criminals hard enough to kill. Gene Hunt, a Gypsy fiddle player, who could play, Sam realized. He found himself clapping along with the music, his Chelsea booted foot tapping along with the tempo.  
Gene wound his way through the piece like a man walking a familiar path through the woods. Slightly behind him, Ray was standing, listening intently, with an expression Sam had never seen from him before: calm pleasure, azure eyes twinkling.  
Gene played several pieces of various tempos, moving around the room in an almost unconscious way. When he concluded the last piece, Sam leapt to his feet and clapped vigorously.  
Sam shook his head, smiling broadly. “Gene, that was amazing. I never would have guessed you were musical!”  
Gene sat perched on the arm of the couch, re - tuning his fiddle. “ There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet, Tyler. I won’t show me whole hand all at once.” Gene raised green eyes to Sam’s face. “I know what you’re thinking, Sam. I know you’re wondering why Ray is here.”  
Sam was caught flat - footed. He looked from Gene to Ray and back again, and Gene gave him a vaguely predatory grin. “Wha,’ you think they made me a DCI because of me stunning good looks? You’re as easy t’ read as the Sunday sports pages, Gladys.”  
Sam blushed deeply. Gene summoned Ray to stand beside him, rubbing his back with one hand. “’E is ‘ere for a reason,” Gene assured Sam, then looked into Ray’s eyes.  
“ ‘A Battle of Birds,’” Gene told Ray, who nodded. Gene began to play a mournful melody, and shortly Ray began to sing:  
“Mark well God’s wondrous works, and see,  
“What things therein declared be,  
“Such things as may with trembling fear  
“Fright all the world, the same to hear;  
“For like to these, which here I tell  
“No man alive remembreth well…”  
Sam sat, and listened to Ray lift his fine voice and sing what must have been an ancient ballad. The song told the tale of a gigantic flock of starlings that attacked the village of Corke, Ireland. Sam would not have thought Ray knew a place called Corke existed, much less been able to sing of it so beautifully.  
Sam knew that what he was hearing from both men was a thing that harkened back to times long passed, to ancient traditions of traveling musicians. Gene played with obvious passion, his face wearing an expression of grim sorrow.  
The two men played and sang with virtuosity, and Sam found himself moved by the music. When the lengthy piece at last concluded, Ray dropped his eyes, his hands folded in front of him. Gene met Sam’s gaze evenly.  
“She’s never heard you play?” Sam questioned Gene.  
“Never,” Gene told him. “Don’t play, for just anyone. ’Arry used to make me play, usually during disciplinary sessions. I remember once...’e made Ray stand on deck and sing, nude, one freezin’ night, and made me play the ‘ole time.” Gene and Ray shared a look of old affection, and Sam bit his lip. Gene caught the micro-expression, and walked over and led Sam out into the corridor.  
Gene tilted Sam’s chin up to look at him. “Look,” Gene began. “Sam, I love you, all right? I’m married, I’m a bastard, I’m scared of my wife…but I’m yours. Ray is me dog, not me lover. You never ‘ave to worry about ‘im. He’s your dog, too, by extension. You got to know that, got to start actin’like it. This was all for you, tonight…”  
Sam sighed deeply. “Why have you never played for her?”  
Gene looked at an indeterminate point in space. “Because I only play when it means something to me. She…she an’ I ‘ave been out of love for a long time, Sam. That’s why I let Ray keep this at ‘is place. I don’ want it touched by the pain between she and I.”  
Sam swallowed past the tightness in his throat. He felt like a bit of a fool. He looked into Gene’s eyes, at the pain and concern and, yes, the love he saw there, and realized what Gene Hunt’s real hidden talent was. Not the fiddle, but diplomacy. Gene was a man who came with baggage, some of it substantial. But if Sam could not learn to cope with the other people who had a stake in Gene’s life for now, and with Ray, likely forever, they were finished before they even began.  
Sam slid his arms around Gene’s ample middle, resting his head on his chest. Gene took Sam in an embrace, still holding the fiddle and its bow.  
“Sorry,” Sam said. “I guess it shows, I’m insecure, huh?”  
“You think, Dorothy?”  
Sam laughed quietly. “Okay, okay. You sort out everything, and I’ll wait on you. But I won’t wait forever—Ray I’ll put up with, but your wife is a deal breaker.”  
“Wife’s a deal breaker. Got it, you little gobshite,” Gene said. The two men kissed, long and sweet and filled with all the feelings these two complex men might not be able to express in words.  
Sam rested his arms on Gene’s shoulders. “So, we’re going to go back in there and get very sweaty and sticky tonight, and Ray can watch, if he wants. But he can’t touch you, got it?”  
“Yes, M’love,” Gene said, shaking his head. “Bloody fucking tyrant. You want to chain me to that shitty bed of yours first, maybe?”  
“Maybe,” Sam said, his tone amused.  
Gene rolled great pale nephrite eyes. “Piece of work,” he murmured.

 

END


End file.
